Authors: Elaine Coffman
She looked up in surprise. She was a simple beauty blooming with rustic health, Reed thought. With a change of clothes, she would be a daughter of the gods, for she was divinely tall and fair.
“Why are you staring? Have you nothing better to do?”
Reed frowned. She was far too young and far too lovely to be so bitter. Her behavior—everything about her, really—reached out to him by some mysterious faculty of suggestion. How odd to have just come upon her and yet to feel as if he could read her face—and if not that, then most certainly her voice.
“I was thinking—”
She cut him off. “Go do your thinking someplace else, troubadour.”
Reed wondered how such loveliness could be so cold and dour. Well, he wasn’t so hard up for a pretty face or a job that he had to beg for work. He would, as she suggested, ride on and try someplace else. Any woman who went to that much trouble to be inhospitable ought to be left alone.
He gave her a brief nod, bringing his fingers up to the brim of his hat. “Good day to you, then.”
He turned and rode back the way he had come, then kicked his horse into a gallop, leaving the farm and the caustic woman behind. The sun to his back, he rode westward, heading toward the town of Bluebonnet. The smell of life was all about him, for the fields and roadside were bursting with bloom. Little did it matter that it was mostly prickly pear, fire-wheel, and evening primrose, not to mention the dazzling color of bluebonnets that stretched as far as the eye could see. This was a flat, dry part of the world, and he had thought it rather bleak when he’d first encountered it, but one had only to scratch the surface a bit to see its real beauty.
He thought again of the woman. He didn’t even know her name.
Reed passed a few cowhands working cattle. He nodded in their direction. None of them said anything; they merely watched him.
After riding about a mile or so, Reed crossed a narrow creek. Just as he reached the other side, he was set upon by four or five wild and rowdy cowboys looking for a diversion—which, apparently, he was. He recognized them as the men he’d passed a ways back.
Before he had time to react, one of them roped him and pulled him from his horse. They dragged him through the water for some distance before turning toward land. Reed wasn’t certain if they intended to drown him or hang him.
Once he felt the earth beneath him again, Reed struggled to his feet. He saw there were five riders in all. It was obvious which one was the leader. The sorrel the cowboy rode was tall and a bit thin-legged, but Reed figured it was a good and solid mount with a saddle not quite as fine as Reed’s McLellan, but one any man would be happy to own.
The other three riders lined up abreast of the leader like aides-de-camp. They didn’t concern Reed too much, but the leader certainly was worthy of concern, with his dark, maliciously ardent eyes. The fifth man held the rope. He kept the tension tight as he rode up to the water’s edge.
“Get his horses,” the leader said, and one of the three men rode after Reed’s mount and packhorse. When he caught them, he led them back to where the others waited.
The leader looked over the roan and the gray. “You steal these horses?”
“I bought them.”
“Don’t see such fine horseflesh around here too often.”
“I didn’t buy them here.”
“Where’d you get them?”
“In Maryland.”
“You a Yankee?”
“I was too young to fight in that war.”
“You from up North?”
Reed nodded.
“Where?”
“Boston.”
The leader glanced at the man holding the rope. “He’s a Yankee and these horses are stolen. Tie him up.” He turned his horse and rode off, calling back to the others to bring along Reed’s horses.
Reed fought against the ropes as he watched the cowhands take possession of everything he owned: his horses, his McLellan saddle, his Colt revolver, his hunting rifle, a fine Sharps Greedmore that was worth a pretty penny.
When the one holding the rope reached for Reed’s hat, it was too much, and Reed took a swing at him.
That was when the rope tightened about his chest and he was jerked from his feet. He could feel his body flying across the ground. He clenched his jaw and tried to shut out the pain as he wondered if they would drag him behind that horse until he was dead. A moment later, his head smashed against something hard, and everything in his world went cold and black.
Something flapped nearby and Reed opened his eyes. A blackbird flew off.
It was early morning and the sky was beginning to lighten from a rosy pink to a pale yellow. In the distance a mourning dove called, only to be drowned out by the long shriek of a train whistle coming from far off. His head felt as if it had been split with a broadax. His stomach churned and he thought he was going to be sick. He closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, he saw pinpricks of sunlight floating before him. Great white puffs of clouds drifted overhead and he thought back to when he was a boy and how the maids would hang the laundry on the lines on a day such as this. But it hurt his eyes to stare at the whiteness of the clouds, so he closed them again.
Reed awoke. A sharp pain shot through his skull, and he felt as if his eyeballs were going to pop out. He put his hand to his head and felt a large lump, then saw blood on his fingers when he pulled them away. He tried to sit up, but the swirling in his head prevented him. He lay back down and closed his eyes, waiting for the dizziness to pass. He must have drifted off, for when he opened his eyes again, he could tell by the angle of the sun that it was late afternoon. He had no way of knowing just how long he had been out, but he did know two things: one, that he was so hungry his ribs were knocking together, and two, that everything he owned was gone.
He tried to stand, but fell back to the ground.
He made it to his feet on the second try, then stood there for a moment, his legs weak and rubbery. When he felt stronger, he started walking, having no idea where he was headed. His head throbbed with each wobbly step, but he managed to make his way across a field, his gaze locked on the angled roof of a farmhouse that seemed to rise up suddenly out of the horizon.
He walked in the direction of the house, trudging over hard-baked earth, stumbling occasionally over a clump of dry grass. The smell of something cooking made his mouth water, and he wondered if there would be any charity for him behind the walls of that home. He couldn’t guess what time it was and reached for his watch, then remembered it had been taken from him, along with his money. He thought it might be getting close to six when he recalled that in Boston they always dined at seven.
How far away that all seemed to him now, and yet invariably his thoughts went back across the ruins of time and he found himself at the Cabots’ ball, walking down the red carpet that had just been rolled out by the footmen, then stepping into a crimson-walled drawing room, and after that, into a ballroom where the luster of many candles reflected off the polished parquetry floor.
Wax candles. Women laughing as they spun around the room in dresses with wide tulle skirts. The warm gaze of his mother, wrapped in deep blue velvet and wearing the family diamonds. The emotion was rich and ineffably tender.
He retreated from those feelings and was swept with a new and deeper sort of weariness. He felt as if he had been struggling for hours to climb a steep precipice, and just when he had reached the top, he was plunged over the side into an abyss. The memory passed with the tinkling of a sheep bell, and Reed saw the fine drawing rooms of Boston disappear, only to face the reality of stubborn hot sun and parched earth and a stomach that would not be quieted.
By the time he reached the farmhouse, his stomach was rumbling loudly, and his mouth was watering at the thought of getting something to eat. He could not remember when he had eaten last or when he had been so hungry.
Beneath the sparse shade of a mesquite tree, he paused and stood looking at the farmhouse before his hunger drove him on and he crossed the cleanly swept yard, scattering a few clucking chickens. He walked around the corner of the house—and stopped short, staring down the gleaming barrel of a rifle.
“Take another step and I’ll blow a hole through you.”
The voice belonged to a thin young boy who eyed him nervously. The lad didn’t look a day over twelve or thirteen. But he had a rifle in his hands, and that made him formidable.
Reed tried diplomacy. “Pardon me, but I was wondering…”
The boy waved the rifle barrel at him. “Take your wondering elsewhere. We don’t cotton to strangers around here.”
“I’ll be on my way, then, but I would like a drink from your well.”
“Mister, the only thing you can have is a bullet hole through your middle, unless you start walking.” He waved the rifle again.
“Thanks for your hospitality,” Reed said.
He walked along the wall of the house until he reached the corner, where he turned and spied a pie cooling on the windowsill. His belly rumbled. He paused and looked behind him. The boy was nowhere in sight, so Reed put his hands into his pocket and fished around, thankful that the old knife he inherited from his grandfather wasn’t valuable enough for those cowhands to steal. He opened the knife and cut himself a healthy slice of pie.
He took a bite and almost choked.
He had never tasted anything so wretched. The pie looked okay. He tried another bite and spit it out. He had never suspected anyone could do such a horrible thing to a pie. Hungry as he was, Reed couldn’t bring himself to take another bite. He was ravenous, but he wasn’t stupid. A man could die from eating the likes of that pie. No wonder that young boy was so skinny. Reed put the slice back on the plate and put the whole thing on the window ledge where he’d found it.
He crossed the farmyard and stopped by the well. He drew a bucket of water, then took a tin cup from a peg, dipped it into the bucket, and was about to take a drink when he heard a terrible racket. For a moment he thought a coyote had gotten into the henhouse, but then he saw a woman running toward him, a rake in her hand, both of her chins flapping as she went. For a split second he was transfixed by what he saw. Reed had seen homely women before, but he had never seen anyone so downright ugly. Every place he looked, she overflowed—save her head, where her mouse-brown hair was so sparse, it looked as if someone had taken pity on her and tried to draw some on with pen and ink. Surely she had been standing behind the door when the good Lord handed out looks.
It suddenly occurred to him the woman was dangerously close to clobbering him with that rake. Cup still in hand, Reed took off running.
Hard as it was to admit, Reed found himself chased off by a woman who looked awful enough to have been the mother of that pie. He ran through the garden, leaping over tomato plants and trailing vines of squash, not stopping until he came upon a milk cow grazing placidly in a pasture some distance away.
When Reed stopped to catch his breath, he realized the woman had vanished and he was still clutching the cup. He looked from the cup in his hand to the cow and decided he would put both to good use.
He had never milked a cow before, but he’d seen it done many times. How difficult could it be? Besides, Reed was starving and in no position to let an opportunity pass. After his previous encounter, he was glad to settle for a little fresh milk. Anything would be better than that pie.
Even starving.
He slipped his belt off and looped it around the cow’s neck to lead her to the gate, where he could tie her. He had almost reached the fence when he saw two men riding toward him. Before he could say “Howdy,” they roped him and yanked him from his feet. This was becoming a habit.
Winded, Reed lay on the ground and looked up at the two men standing over him. One of them was the boy who’d chased him off with the rifle. The older man, Reed supposed, was the father.
“We have every right to hang a cattle thief,” the man said. “But I think I’ll haul you into town and let the sheriff deal with your thieving hide.”
“I’m no cattle thief.”
“And I suppose that ain’t your belt what’s looped around my cow’s neck?”
“I wasn’t going to steal anything but a cup of milk,” Reed said in his defense, but the man poked a kerchief in his mouth and tied his hands behind his back.
Once they arrived in town, Reed was yanked off the horse. He stumbled and fell.
“Keep your gun pointed at his head,” the man said to his son. “If he tries to get up, shoot him.”
“Okay, Pa,” the boy said as he looked at Reed nervously.
Reed figured the slightest movement might cause the lad to shoot, so he lay in the dirt among horse droppings and waited. The sight of him lying there drew the eye of a few curious bystanders who paused to speculate on just what he must have done.
A door opened. Reed heard footsteps crossing the boarded walk, then a voice. “You did the right thing, Hiram. It’s better to bring someone in and let the law take care of it instead of taking matters into your own hands.”
“See the man, Mommy! He’s lying in the dirt!”
“Hush up, Sara Jane.”
“Lookey at that,” a male voice said. “A grown man playing in the dirt.”
Several people snickered.
“Haul that poor bastard to his feet and let’s have a look-see.”
When he was yanked to his feet, he saw a man close to fifty, so fat his belt hung under his belly. His face was pumpkin round and a bit red, but his eyes looked kinder than those of his accuser, the man named Hiram. A tin star was pinned to his vest. The man pushed his hat onto the back of his head and gave Reed the once-over.
“What’s this I hear about you stealing?”
“A thief!” someone shouted.
“Lynch him,” another yelled.
“He looks like he’d slit your throat for two bits,” a woman said.
“I say stretch him up right now!” another called out.
“The sheriff will take care of that,” another woman said.
Listening to the shouts and comments as a crowd began to gather, Reed felt sweat run down the curve of his spine, and his wrists ached where the leather thongs were tied too tight. He gazed around at the inhospitable crowd and wondered just how it was that his life had deteriorated so that he’d been brought this low.
“Will y’all shut up just a damn minute and let me find out what’s going on here?” the sheriff said.
Someone grabbed at Reed.
The sheriff slapped his hand away. “Dab-nab it! Royce, will you get your hands off him, before I shave your mustache and stuff it up your nose?” The sheriff hitched his britches up. “All right now. We’ve got a man accused of stealing, but there ain’t gonna be no hanging. He’ll get his chance before a judge, but first off, I’ve got some questions to ask, and I’d appreciate it if everyone here would go on home or at least stand back and be quiet.”
No one made a move to leave.
That seemed to please the sheriff. “Now that we’ve got a little law and order here, let us proceed.”
‘Just string him up and be done with it,” a boy yelled.
“I’m not stringing up anybody.”
“Lock him up, then,” a man on crutches shouted.
“I don’t know that he’s done anything wrong, and if y’all don’t get quiet, I’m not ever going to find out. I can’t lock up a man who hasn’t been charged, and I can’t charge him with anything until I find out, exactly, what it was that he did. If I think he’s guilty of the crime he’s charged with, then I’ll lock him up. If not, I’ll let him go. Now, has anyone else got something to say? Because the next person who yells out is going to get locked up without an investigation. Do I make myself clear?”
No one said a word. As far as threats went, that one worked pretty well, but Reed was reminded that nothing had gone right since he came to this godforsaken place. He could not help wondering what would happen to him next.